Detective Stratton stood there. A squad of men carrying equipment waited on the walkway behind him. "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Weaver," he said politely.

"What do you want?" Keely asked.

The Realtor and the well-dressed young couple who were viewing the house appeared in the doorway to the living room and stared at Keely curiously.

"This is the Crime Scene Investigation Unit," Phil Stratton explained. "We need access to your pool area to collect some evidence in regard to your husband's drowning."

"Drowning!" the young woman behind Keely exclaimed with a gasp.

"I have people here looking at my house," said Keely angrily.

"They can continue looking," Phil said. "They won't be in our way."

Keely could hear low voices murmuring behind her. "No, I couldn't," she heard the young woman insist.

"May we go around back?" Phil asked.

"Do as you like," said Keely, slamming the door. She turned to apologize to the Realtor and the prospective buyers, but the young couple averted their eyes from her gaze.

Nan Ranstead walked up to Keely. "I'm afraid we're through here. They've lost interest. Could you just tell me the next time if you're expecting the police?"

"I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting them."

Nan ushered the couple out, and Keely watched as they hurrieddown the driveway toward Nan's red Ford Taurus. Shaking her head, Keely walked back to the French doors and let herself out onto the patio. She crossed the patio and saw one man shooting photographs of the pool's gate and another officer wielding a tape measure and writing down numbers on a pad. Phil Stratton was conferring with a man with a clipboard in a blue windbreaker.

"Detective Stratton," said Keely.

Phil Stratton turned and looked at her.

"What in the world are you doing here?"

"We've been measuring-" he said.

"I can see that. But what are you measuring? Why?"

"Well, one thing we measured was the distance from the house to the pool." He tapped a gold pen against his upper lip. "Now how old is that baby of yours?"

"She's a year old. Detective, I hope you know that you just torpedoed the sale of my house. I had prospective buyers here looking at the property. But once you announced my husband's drowning, they couldn't get away fast enough."

"Can't be helped," he said shortly. "About the baby-how long do you think it would take her to walk from inside the house out to the pool?"

"I don't know," she cried. "How would I know? I don't time her."

"But she's not fast. I mean, she's not marching along at a clip."

"No, of course not."

"Doesn't it strike you as odd?" he asked.

"What?"

"Well, toddlers are always on the move. I don't have any children myself, but my sisters are always complaining about having to watch their kids every minute. Doesn't it strike you as odd that your husband would leave her alone, out of his sight, long enough for her to make her way out to the pool? Never notice she wasn't in the house?"

For a minute, Keely felt confused. She thought of her last sight of Mark alive-holding Abby in his arms. He knew that Abby had to be closely watched. But maybe someone had called and he got distracted. Thought Abby was safely beside him, but she wasn't. "I don't know," sheadmitted. "Maybe they were already outside and he took his eyes off her for some reason. A phone call. I don't know."

"Yeah. I guess that's possible," Stratton said. He squinted out at the tarp-covered pool. Rainwater had collected in the center, forming a brackish puddle with dried leaves floating on it. "But if he was outside with her, wouldn't he have noticed that the gate to the pool was ajar? Don't you think so?"

Keely looked from the pool back to the house. Her heart felt strange in her chest, as if it were skipping a beat every so often. "I guess something distracted him," she admitted. And in her mind's eye she imagined him, deep in conversation on the phone, thinking the baby was there beside him. a.s.suming there was no danger. Maybe he was talking to a client. Trying to make a better deal. Losing track of the baby as he presented his arguments. And then a scream, a splash. Tears sprang to her eyes as she pictured him leaping up, knowing in that moment that disaster was on him. Rushing over to see her, his adored child, flailing helplessly in the deep end and having, in that instant, to make an unthinkable choice-choosing.

"Why are you making me live through this again?" she pleaded.

"What could possibly have distracted him that much?" he persisted.

"I don't know," Keely cried. "A client . . . an emergency . . ."

"We thought of that. There is no indication that he was on the phone at the time of the accident. I questioned Sergeant Henderson about this. He said that they didn't find the phone outside when they got here. It was inside. On the hook."

Keely regarded him balefully. "Maybe he went inside to answer it."

"And left a toddler alone out here with the gate to the pool open?" Phil Stratton asked, incredulous.

"No. I don't know," said Keely miserably.

"No, I'm thinking maybe he was inside the house when it happened. Your records show he'd logged on to the Internet at seven o'clock. He was in the house, and the baby wandered away. And he had no idea that the pool gate was open."

Keely felt as if her head was spinning. "He was careless, all right? And he paid with his life for that carelessness. What difference does itmake? You know what happened." Tears ran down her face, and she wiped them impatiently.

Detective Stratton ignored her tears. "That's just it. We don't know what happened. And frankly, I'm surprised that you're not more curious."

Keely was stung by his rebuke. "Look, I don't care how it happened. The result is the same. The pool gate was left open. It should have been locked, but it wasn't. Mark lost track of the baby. He should have been watching her, but he didn't. My life was going to be happy, and now it isn't. That's all I need to know."

"I'm afraid we need to know a little more than that. Mrs. Weaver, I want you to bring your son, Dylan, down to the prosecutor's office this afternoon."

"The prosecutor's office," she said, wiping her eyes. "Whatever for?"

"We want to talk to Dylan some more. It's in the Profit County courthouse. Do you know where that is?"

The detective's words stunned her like a blow. "Yes, but . . . talk to Dylan? Why? What is this all about? Why is that necessary?"

"What time does he get home from school?"

"Three o'clock. But I don't see-"

"Let's make it three-thirty, then."

"Wait a minute, detective. Let me save you . . . everyone . . . the trouble. Do you want to know how the pool gate got open? Well, I'll tell you. Dylan-my son, Dylan-left it open. He was mad at me about the bike, and he came home to get his skateboard, which he had carelessly left by the pool. All right? He made a mistake and he left the gate open, and the worst thing that could have happened did happen."

"So you believe itwasDylan who left the gate open," he said, pouncing on her admission.

"Well, it makes sense. Of course, he's terrified to admit it. He's probably afraid I won't love him anymore. But I don't intend to make him suffer his whole life for a moment of carelessness. We all do things we regret. Things we would take back if we could. His mistake led to tragedy. I know it, he knows it, and now you know it. If you want to saythat subconsciously he might have . . . I don't know. It's true that he had mixed feelings about the baby. It's true he resented my remarriage. But any kid would. That doesn't mean he did it on purpose. Never intentionally. Never. He is a good boy."

Detective Stratton looked at her thoughtfully. "You're so sure," he said.

"Of course I'm sure!" she cried. "I know my own son."

Detective Stratton called out to the CSI team that it was time to wrap it up. Then he looked at her impa.s.sively. "In that case, you have nothing to worry about. Until three-thirty, then? You might want to have your attorney present. We'll try not to keep you for too long."

8.

The offices of Weaver, Weaver, and Bergman were located in a newly refurbished, Federal-era house at the end of the downtown business area of St. Vincent's Harbor. Lucas had chosen shrewdly when selecting this s.p.a.ce. From the street, it was a dignified, perfectly proportioned townhouse that exuded an aura of history, discretion, and taste. Inside, there were views of Chesapeake Bay from most of the windows, and anyone who knew anything about the town of St. Vincent's Harbor knew that harborview property was the most expensive property in town. One had only to step through the door onto the blue-and-gold-patterned Stark carpet to know that this was the firm where people of means found their legal representation.

Keely pulled her SUV into a s.p.a.ce that was being vacated in front of the building and looked up at the formal redbrick facade with a feeling of dread. She had wanted to postpone coming here as long as possible, but it simply couldn't be avoided. Detective Stratton's suggestion that she bring Dylan and an attorney to the prosecutor's office had her panicked. She needed Lucas's advice, face to face. She looked down ruefully at the tailored glen-plaid pantsuit that she had hurriedly put on. Since Abby's birth she rarely wore her "work" clothes, but today the suit made her feel more professional, more in control of this hostile situation. She had left Abby with Ingrid, who had seemed more than willing to take the baby if it meant helping Dylan.

Keely climbed the white steps to the gleaming door, glancing at the gold plaque with the name of the firm engraved on it. She knew better than to ring the bell, although she felt like an intruder as she opened the door and walked in. She had not come here often. Mark was a man who became intensely absorbed in his work, and he made it clear, just fromhis body language, that impromptu visits, even from his wife, were not welcome.

Keely stepped inside, crossed over to the desk of Sylvia Jeffries, the longtime receptionist, and cleared her throat. Sylvia looked up from her computer monitor and her eyes widened.

"Mrs. Weaver," she said, extending her hand. "So good to see you."

Keely shook the older woman's hand and didn't bother to urge her to use her first name. Sylvia was from the old school and had no intention of changing her ways. "It's good to see you, Sylvia."

"How are you and the children doing?" Sylvia asked sympathetically.

"We're managing," said Keely.

Sylvia, a widow herself, nodded. "It's not easy," she said. "You just have to take it one day at a time."

"Right," said Keely. "I'm sorry to bother you . . ."

"Oh, I suppose you'd like to get into Mr. Weaver's office. I keep it locked," Sylvia said.

"Actually, no," said Keely. "I was hoping to see Lucas."

"Well, that could be a problem," Sylvia said grimly, a little frown creasing her forehead. "He has someone with him right now."

"I'll wait," said Keely. "It's important."

"I'll let him know you're here." Sylvia picked up the phone.

"Thanks," said Keely. She walked over to the gold-and-blue striped Queen Anneastyle chair and sat down. She looked at the headlines of the magazines on the coffee table, but nothing was interesting enough to distract her from her current worries. She sat back, gripped the curved arms of the chair, and tried to calm her breathing by inhaling deeply.

The walls of the office were decorated with groupings of the sepiatoned photographs from Lucas's collection. Keely stared at them as she waited. The cowboys in the photos had been brought to heel by the time-consuming demands of primitive photography. They glared out at the camera, forced to sit still for posterity.

"Mrs. Weaver," Sylvia called out in a soft voice. "Your father-in-law wanted me to tell you he'll be right with you."

"Thanks," said Keely.

Just then the door to Lucas's office opened, and Lucas came out into the hall, followed by an exotically handsome young man with African features, a mocha-colored complexion, and frizzy bronze dreadlocks. His eyes were a startling sea green. He was wearing a black leather coat and engineer's boots with their buckles flapping. "I'm sorry, Mr. Graham," Lucas said. "I wish I could help you. I don't know what else to tell you."

"Right, mate," said the man sarcastically in a British accent. "I rather expected you wouldn't be much help to me. My being black and all . . ."

"You couldn't be more wrong, Mr. Graham," said Lucas stiffly.

The young man shook his head as if in disbelief and slammed the door to the anteroom back as he left.

Lucas came over to her. "Keely," said Lucas, "I'm sorry about that."

"That's all right," she murmured.

"Come into my office. Sylvia, hold my calls."

Keely followed him as he walked haltingly down the corridor, leaning on his silver-headed ebony cane. She sat down in one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. A Frederick Remington statue of a broncobuster stood on one corner of the large desk. Lucas frowned as he slowly walked around and pulled out his chair.

"What an amazing-looking young man," Keely observed.

Lucas sighed as he sat down. "Yes," he said.

Keely wanted to ask if he was in some kind of trouble, but she knew enough about client privilege not to bother. Lucas wouldn't be able to tell her even if he wanted to. But he sat in his chair staring into the distance with a frown on his face.

"Lucas?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

Lucas did not reply.

"Lucas?"

He shook his head, as if to shake off some heaviness in his heart caused by the young man's visit. "I can tell you I don't like being called a bigot," he said.

"It's not you, Lucas," Keely said rea.s.suringly.

"I've got my faults. G.o.d knows, I've done my share of things . . ."

"If he knew you, he wouldn't have said that," Keely insisted, leaning forward.

Lucas nodded and tapped a pen on his blotter thoughtfully.

"Was he a client?" Keely asked. She didn't know what else to say to fill the silence. The attorney seemed so preoccupied.

Lucas turned his head and looked at her quizzically. "Who?" he asked.

Keely sat back in her chair, taken aback a little by this apparent memory lapse. "Your visitor," she said. "The young British guy who just left."